


In This Crossroads We Stand

by RiverRunningFree



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Castiel and Dean Winchester Fight, Crossroads, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester Fight, Dreaming, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, I Don't Even Know, Intense, It doesn't make sense but it actually does, It's 2 in the morning, Poetry, Prose Poem, Sort Of, Stress, dream - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23090395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverRunningFree/pseuds/RiverRunningFree
Summary: What Dean feels like with the different parts of his life pulling him in different directions.A/N: Okay, it's kind of a poem, its sort of in prose. But it's really not. It's actually really deep and I'll try not to explain too much because I think things like this are better left unexplained and up for interpretation. Basically I'm using Dean to sort out my own feelings about life.Good luck.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 2





	In This Crossroads We Stand

He's standing at a crossroads. The night is dark and the moon is howling. The yearning in his chest won't ease and every one of the four directions pull him in and yet pushes him out.

He's standing at a crossroads. The moon seems to glare down at him, its looming iridescence taunts him with dreams and possibilities. It pulls his eyes towards the beautiful light it glows, while distracting him of The eerie shadows it casts about his feet. The moon seems so far away, so it most be good.

Because all things that are out of reach are things that should be reached for. Right?

He glances away from the moon for a moment, his gaze realizing the darkness he stands in. The parts the moon cannot touch, no matter how brilliant and full it hangs among the stars. He stares at the shadows creeping across the four roads and the weaving dance it sways with the grass. The grass was green this morning, but now all he sees is grays and shadows, if shadows are a color of their own. The green is gone now.

It cannot be seen therefore it must no longer be there. Right?

He is standing at a crossroads. His feet shift uneasily into the dirt and rocks underneath his tread. Solid ground. He stands on solid ground. But what good is solid ground if it does not move? What good is that which takes you nowhere? The dirt stretches in four directions. North. South. East. West. But where they lead he cannot see, the darkness swallows them whole. The shadows dance over them until they consume and the moon offers no comfort to illuminating what is far away.

Because nothing is lit that is not right before your eyes. Right?

He is standing at a crossroads.

And he is alone.

Or he was alone. Is he still alone? Was he ever alone?

Because the wind carries a voice to his ears and it sounds like the gravel beneath his feet. It sounds rough, but it warms his heart, and why would something as sharp as gravel do that? The grating voice deepens with pain, it lightens with love, it soars not into his ears but his soul. And he looks to the South and there is the voice. 

For every voice comes from somewhere. Right?

The gravel has wings and its shadow is as tall as the Chrysler building. It calls to his heart and pulls his feet to the South. The darkness remains, but now twin blues are his beacons.

But as his third step is taken, another voice comes. It lacks any gravel, but it brings warmth to his mind. A sound so familiar he could follow in the dark, he could follow in the shadows, he could follow in the moonlight. The voice comes from the East and it's taller than it used to be, but it never really matters. Nothing ever changes with the voice from the East, no matter how far to the West he ran in the past.

Because the past always passes. Right?

He's standing at a crossroads. He's torn, his feet freeze. South or East? South or East? or...West?

An old voice comes from the West. A voice older than the East and more commanding than the South. The West chills his bones and he dares not look. He knows what the West will say and he does not want to hear it. He wants to hear his own voice, but he can't hear it above the chatter and the moon and the shadows and the dirt and the pebbles in his shoes. He wants the West to go away, but still he knows the West can sway him more then the South or East combined. He hates it and he loves it and he asks the West to stay.

Three roads in opposite directions. Three yelling at him now. They each know the way and their voices clash like an un-tuned orchestra. Rasping, yelling, his ears are bleeding. His feet shuffle back and forth and back and forth. They stumble and pull, and his feet do not listen to their master. They listen to the voices, growing louder and harsher and they pull back and forth and back and forth.

And...

Three roads...

Three...

And then there's a fourth. The voice of the North is not loud, it is quiet. It does not stand tall and it does not cast a shadow of its own. It comes to him like a whisper. Like a cloud covering over his ears. It blends with the other voices and gives a small tug at his heart. Tugging it to the North. But it doesn't pull. It just whispers.

He doesn't know this voice.

He doesn't think he could ever know this voice.

This voice has no substance, but bears over all. A void that whispers, that tugs, that waits. It waits, and it grows. But not when you're watching. The voice has no form, and the voice has no owner. But suddenly the South and the East and the West are in harmony. They beg him to not listen to the North. The North is tricky and it spins a tall tale, of promises and hopes, and most of which will fail. But the North hums, and it latches to his heart... what could be, what might be, what if...what if he just moves and his feet follow North?

The harmony is lost, and the whisper roars its head, and he collapses to the ground clutching his ears and screaming for them to stop. He's screaming, he is. Or at least he thinks so. But he can't hear his voice, because the voices of the South and the East and the West and the North, they ring in his head. Louder. Louder. Faster. Faster. He can't breathe, he can't move. But he's gasping, he's trying. But where is his voice?

And now there's a clock.

It quickly stutters across the moon, covering up the moonlight. And chaos grows and the ticking rings, not around him, but within him. And it grows and it grows. And he can't breathe, and he's gasping, he's rasping. His lungs are tight and the voices are like thunder. They rage wars in his head. He prays for peace and nothing comes clear. Just the clock, and the voices, and the shadows, and the darkness, and the dirt, and the pebbles beneath his feet.

And he opens his eyes.

And he breathes.

He is standing at a crossroads.

There are four roads. One to the South, one to North, one to the East, and one to the West.

He breathes.

The moon still shines. It never went away. 

Now he hears a sound. It is soft, but it is clear. It rings like crystal and a fine violin. The dance of a bow across delicate strings. It does not come from the roads. It does not come from the moon. Or the shadows, or the darkness, or the dirt, or the pebbles in his shoes. It comes from him. And it is pure.

His feet move. 

He takes a step.

................................................

Dean's eyes flicked open with a start. His vision clouding then clearing before he sees his bedroom ceiling, it's fan gliding round and round, a perfect loop.

"Dean?"

He looked over at Cas and let a small smile play on his lips. "It's alright Cas, go back to sleep. Just dreaming."

He rolls to his side. Eyes closing and body warming.

"What did you dream of?"

"....Just life."

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So it's 2am and i can't sleep, so I apologize for dumping this...whatever this is, on you guys. I'm graduating from college in a couple months and I feel like this scenario keeps playing over and over in my head every day. Life is confusing, and stressful. Kudos to those of you who have figured it out.


End file.
